Riddles of the Heart
by Regina Noctis
Summary: Even before he killed his father and grandparents, Tom Riddle had split his soul. . . in more ways than one. For murder is not the only event that will break the heart. HBP canon.


He was the dark and brooding boy whose very presence was strange in some subtle, menacing way. His mother, a filthy tramp, had crawled into the orphanage between contractions, given birth to the boy, and died before an hour had passed. No one knew where she came from; she only spoke once, and that was just to name her son: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She was the shy and delicate girl whose gentle smile was strange in some subtle, unearthly way. Her mother, one of London's many "painted women," had deposited her newborn girl on the steps of the orphanage, just minutes after Tom's mother had breathed her last. No one knew where this woman came from, either; the only evidence of her existence was the scrap of paper, found tucked in the baby's blankets, on which she had scrawled the name of her daughter: Miranda Rose Hawkins.

The fact that they had the same birthday was not quite enough to make them friends. In fact, when they fought over how best to split their fourth birthday cake, screaming and yanking each other's hair until the matron pulled them apart, it almost made them mortal enemies. But such things were soon behind them as they grew up and looked at each other through different, calmer eyes.

It all began when Miranda fell ill—not for the first time, certainly, but seriously enough that she was bedridden for a month and the doctor was called in to see her. When she was finally able to leave her room, she was so feeble that she could barely keep up with her assigned chores in the orphanage. Her head spun and her chest ached if she worked for too long without resting; but her many pauses inevitably meant no supper for her because she was not finished before the matron came to check on her. Miranda would weep alone in her room after being sent to her room before dinner, and only Tom could hear her sobs from his room down the corridor.

One day, after two weeks of no evening meals and the matron's constant scolding, a gaudy porcelain teapot that Miranda was washing slipped from her weakened hands and shattered into dozens of pieces at the bottom of the kitchen sink. She stared at the broken pot in horror—it had been part of the matron's favorite tea service, and the woman had constantly bragged about its expense—before sinking to the floor with a low wail and beginning to weep. She was far too slow and clumsy, just as the matron had said; the matron would be sure to make her pay for the damage, through lashes if not by money, when she found out about the loss.

Miranda was crying so hard that she never heard someone enter the kitchen and pause in the doorway before walking over to the sink just behind her.

Several minutes later, she was startled into silence by a fake cough. Miranda turned, sniffling a little, to find Tom Riddle towering over her between herself and the sink. His hands were behind his back, and he was smiling at her with more than a little pity—quite a different expression from the scowl he normally had around the other children. There was a heavy silence as the two stared at each other for many long moments.

Suddenly, Tom dropped onto his knees before her, surprising Miranda so much that she instinctively backed away. Slowly, he brought his hands out in front of him. . . and she gasped when she saw what he was holding.

It was the once-broken teapot, now in one piece and as perfect as before.

* * *

The teapot incident served as the beginning of a strange bond between Tom and Miranda. They started spending more and more time with each other, sometimes getting the matron's permission to go to a certain park in the district if the weather was fair. There, they would sit under an old oak tree and talk about many things, from their present life in the orphanage to their dreams for the future.

Tom revealed to her that he could do many things that were termed "abnormal," such as repair the broken teapot in an instant and understand the language of snakes; but Miranda was too grateful for him rescuing her from the matron's wrath that she could not care less if he spoke to the devil himself. Miranda confided to him that she was mortally afraid of being put on the streets and having to earn a living through her mother's profession, something that the matron had often hinted at whenever Miranda was being verbally punished; Tom hugged her tightly and promised that she would never have to suffer such a terrible fate, not while he was there. In this way, both were comforted in their loneliness, and their friendship slowly grew. . .

Until one summer trip to the beach went horribly, horribly wrong.

Miranda herself was not there; she was still recuperating from her long illness and had asked to be left behind. But she certainly heard enough when the matron entered the orphanage late in the afternoon, dragging a very pale Tom by one ear.

"You ungrateful wretch!" The matron was livid from shouting. "After all these years, I've given you food, clothing, shelter, and more love than you deserve, and now you turn on me like the vile snake you are! How dare you!" She gave Tom's ear a hard shake and seemed to gain some pleasure from watching him wince in pain. "You could've killed them, the way you led them into the cave like that! And would you care? Oh, no, you wouldn't, you vicious little—"

The matron caught sight of Miranda standing in the kitchen doorway, watching the tirade with wide eyes. Her voice immediately softened a little. "Miranda, dear, I'm sorry to have disturbed you." The matron was always gentler and more polite with the girls than the boys, although not by much.

"What happened, ma'am?" Miranda whispered, her eyes only for Tom. He stared back at her with a pleading expression, as if he wanted to tell her but could not.

"Oh, this little vagrant here—" again, the matron shook Tom's ear, "—decided to lead two of the little ones into some cave that none of us can find, then scared them half to death and nearly drowned them! You should've seen the way they were gibbering when we got them out—completely frightened out of their wits!" She grimaced. "We had to come home early, on account of taking the little ones to the doctor and all that. . . and all because Tom decided to ruin a lovely day with his high-jinks!"

"Ma'am. . ." Miranda's voice broke, but she forced herself to continue. She would normally never dream of questioning the matron's judgment; but it was for Tom, after all, the same Tom who had rescued her before—she at least owed him that much in return. "Ma'am, are you sure it's all Tom's fault?"

The matron blinked stupidly several times. "What—what did you say?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Miranda flushed as the matron's gaze bored into her. "I—I mean, what if the little ones wandered off by themselves, and Tom happened to find them before you did? Or—"

"Nonsense, child," the matron snapped, releasing Tom's ear momentarily to turn on Miranda. "Amy herself said that Tom had made _them_ follow _him!_ Now, why would she be lying about that?"

"Maybe she didn't want to get into trouble for sneaking off when she wasn't supposed to," Miranda muttered without thinking, for Amy had a reputation amongst the other children for being the best at breaking into the pantry after curfew. But she instantly regretted it when the matron flushed dark red.

"You brazen hussy! How dare you talk back to me!" The matron seemed to regain some of her composure before commenting coolly, "I suppose I should have expected it at some point, with a low-class mother like yours. The apple never falls far from the tree, you know; I wouldn't be surprised if I saw _you_ working in a brothel one of these days."

Miranda let out a cry and staggered against the doorway, paler than the whitewashed wall she leaned against. But before she could reply, Tom spoke for the first time that afternoon.

"Say that again, and I'll kill you."

The matron and Miranda both stared at Tom, shocked by his words. His voice was quiet and calm, but the thinly-veiled threat was obvious; and somehow, it sounded like he really meant it. "What did you say to me?" the matron finally spluttered.

Although Tom was a good head shorter than the matron, he seemed to grow taller and taller until he dwarfed the woman, an unseen power radiating from him that made her cower in his shadow. "You call her a whore again, and I'll kill you." This time, his voice trembled slightly, and that broke the spell. He resumed his normal size, becoming nothing more than the scrawny orphan boy standing up to the much more powerful mistress; and all knew who would win this battle.

The matron boxed Tom's ears several times before dragging him to his room (by the ears again), throwing him onto the floor, and locking the door behind her with a shout. "No supper for you tonight, nor tomorrow, either!"

Tom did not mind; he could always sneak out after curfew, locked door or not, since the door would unlock for him if he wished it to do so. But that night, and the next night as well, he found that he had no need to go down to the pantry and steal food for his supper.

For when he opened the door every night, there was a parcel of food waiting for him at the threshold, a fresh-blown white rose from the trellis under Miranda's window resting on top.

* * *

It was not long after the botched trip to the beach that a strange-looking man appeared in the orphanage, asking for a certain Tom Riddle. Miranda had watched him through the keyhole of her bedroom door as the matron led him into Tom's room: long auburn hair and beard, half-moon spectacles perched on the tip of his long and crooked nose, flamboyantly dressed, and with the air of one who is used to never being wrong—at least, never being told so to his face. And that strange aura that Tom carried with him lingered around this newcomer as well, but in such a strong amount that Miranda felt uncomfortable even watching him. She quickly pulled her head away from her peephole, shivering without even realizing it.

When Tom came to see her under their tree later that evening, he was bursting with excitement. The stranger was a teacher from of a boarding school in the north, and he wanted Tom to come to his school to study—wonder of wonders!—magic. Tom was a wizard with magic in his blood, the man had said, and it was time for him to learn the heritage of his ancestors. They would pick up school supplies the next day and leave almost immediately after that. Tom was ecstatic at the prospect of being able to leave the orphanage for good, and Miranda did her best to cheer along with him. But inside, her heart was slowly cracking like the matron's teapot had only months before.

"Will you—will you still remember me, Tom? After you've gone to school. . . will you find some other girl and forget about me?" Miranda asked quaveringly as they walked home together for the last time.

Tom stopped in his tracks, seemingly stung by her words—before sweeping her into his arms and giving her their first, most passionate kiss.

"How could I ever forget you, Miranda?" His voice was a husky whisper, filled with emotion, as he looked down on her tenderly. "I will always remember you. Always."

"And I, you," Miranda sighed as they embraced once more. "Forever and ever, until the end."

And that was the truth.

* * *

Several years passed. Tom did not come home during any school vacation, not even for the summer; but he did write frequent letters to "his girl back home," as he told his new schoolmates. Miranda would often be woken up in the wee hours of the morning, either by an owl tapping at her window, or by the matron shrieking about the evil omen that was flying around the orphanage and would not go away. Miranda learned that the owl liked treats, so she would stow away the mice from all of the orphanage's mousetraps and feed them to the owl whilst she wrote out her reply.

Tom would write long and exuberant letters, telling Miranda about the wonderful things they were learning in school, omitting the fact that he was descended from Hogwarts' rebel founder on his mother's side, especially the part about how his ancestor supported the ancient purges of Muggles and Muggleborns.

Miranda would write shorter and cheerful replies, telling Tom about how the matron was treating her much nicer than before, omitting the fact that she was falling ill more and more frequently, especially the part about how her most recent episode had her coughing up blood.

For four years, they exchanged these letters across the long distance between them. Nothing would ever stand in the way of their friendship, it seemed. And then, one day, in the summer of Tom's fourth year away from home, Miranda collapsed.

It was quite sudden and unexpected. One moment, she was scrubbing the floor of the parlor when she started coughing and could not stop; the next, she found herself lying in her own bed with the matron, wringing her hands and sobbing, standing over her head. "Oh, you poor girl," the woman repeated over and over; Miranda wanted to tell her not to worry but discovered that she could not. It took all of her energy and concentration to breathe in and breathe regularly; it felt like her lungs would stop working if she was not attentive.

The doorbell rang shrilly. "There's the doctor!" The matron ran out in a flurry of skirts. In almost the same moment, an owl tapped on Miranda's bedroom window. Miranda gathered what was left of her strength to roll out of bed, grab a pencil that lay on the bedside table, and stagger over to the window to let the bird in, coughing all the while from her effort. She did not even bother reading Tom's letter, just scribbled a message on the outside without removing the parchment from the owl's leg, much to the owl's displeasure. Then, Miranda collapsed for the second time as the bird took flight, leaving behind an unconscious girl and a bewildered doctor and matron who had just entered the bedroom.

Some hours later, Tom was studying in his deserted common room. He was supposed to be reading about goblin history, but he found it highly difficult to concentrate with Miranda on his mind. He hoped that she would not mind the letter he had just sent her; for the first time in their relationship, he had declared outright that he loved her, and he was very nervous as to how she would accept it.

He certainly did not expect the owl to return so quickly.

When he saw that the letter was unopened, he was disappointed, to say the least. But when he read her shaky handwriting on the outside, his heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach.

_Tom,_

_I want to see you before I die._

_I love you._

_M._

A full minute passed before Tom could move. When he finally found the will to do so, he jumped up and ran out of the common room, taking the shortest path he knew to the Headmaster's office. It was time for him to go home.

* * *

Night was falling when someone started pounding on the door of the orphanage. The matron opened it and screamed when she saw who was on the other side; Tom merely pushed his way past her and bounded up the stairs that led to the children's rooms. It had been only an hour since he had received Miranda's message, but perhaps it was already too late—

Tom stopped in the doorway of Miranda's bedroom and exhaled loudly in relief. There was Miranda, her eyes closed, deathly pale. . . with the sheets slowly rising and falling over her bosom. No, he was not too late.

Without making a sound, he drifted into the room like one of Hogwarts' ghosts, closing the door behind him for privacy, and sat down on the stool next to her bed. Miranda's face was drawn and haggard since he had last seen her, and her breath rattled in her chest like an angry creature trying to break its cage. Her chestnut hair, now damp and stringy with sweat, fanned out on the pillow beneath her; it seemed like it was just yesterday when Tom had last twirled that same hair around his finger as they sat together underneath the old oak tree. And here she was now, dying of some Muggle illness at the tender age of fifteen. _It just wasn't right._

Tom's eyes filled with tears in spite of himself. He sniffled a little before reaching out and stroking her hand as it lay on the coverlet; its unnatural coldness spooked him, and he pulled back quickly.

But Miranda opened her eyes at his touch. "Tom," she murmured. "You. . . came back. . ."

Tom swallowed hard and took her cold hand between his own, the tears rolling down his face as he did so. "Yes, I did. And I won't leave you again, Miranda. Not now, not ever. We'll always be together—forever."

Miranda shook her head before breaking into a coughing fit. In the moments of silence that it took for her to catch her breath, Tom could hear mutters and weeping just outside the closed bedroom door. It was the doctor talking to the matron.

"_I'm sorry. . . not much we can do. . . won't last much longer. . ."_

"I'm dying, Tom," Miranda whispered, her breath catching and punctuating her words as she spoke. "I can—I can feel it. I just wanted—to tell you—that I love you." A single tear slipped down her cheek onto the pillow. She smiled wanly at the dark-haired boy next to her. "I wanted—to be yours, Tom. . . but that—that will never—happen now. . ."

"Miranda, don't say that." He was going to start sobbing soon. He rose out of his seat and knelt beside her. "You can't die, we still have so much to do—"

"Don't worry—don't worry about—about me—" She started coughing again and turned her head into the pillow until she finished; when she pulled away, Tom could see the red streaks on the pillowcase where her mouth had been. "Tom—" She was laboring to breathe now. "Tom—I want—I want you to be happy. Forget—forget about me—and find—someone else. . ."

"No, I can't forget you, I won't!" Tom cried, his voice rising. "I love you—I'll always love you! I'll never forget you, I swear it!"

Miranda's breathing was uneven; her hand clenched tighter around Tom's. "I—I love you, too—" She began to choke loudly; dark red bubbles formed around her mouth—she was drowning in her own blood.

Without releasing her hand (her grip was so tight that it was impossible, even if he had tried), Tom helped her into a sitting position with his free arm in a vain attempt to hold back Death. "Miranda, hang in there, _please,_ hang on," he pleaded, crying harder than before. "Don't go, please don't die, not yet. . ."

"Tom. . ." Her once-sweet voice was now hoarse and interrupted by ragged gasps. "Will you. . . kiss me? One. . . last. . . time?"

Tom could only nod, as he did not trust his voice to hold steady. He brought her body closer to him—she was so weak that she provided scant resistance—and lightly touched his lips to her forehead. He pulled away, staring into her pain-filled hazel eyes for the last time. "I love you, Miranda." His voice broke on the second word.

"Good-bye. . . Tom. . . my love. . ." Miranda's voice faded away with each word before her eyes drifted closed, her small body slumping into Tom's arm. She exhaled quietly as she did so—and did not inhale again. Her now-limp hand slipped from Tom's nerveless grasp, landing with a soft _thump_ onto the coverlet.

There was a long silence as Tom stared at the beautiful, dead girl in his arms. She looked so peaceful, almost as if she were asleep, were it not for her complete, frightening stillness. And, even so soon after her last breath, the love of his life was growing icy cold.

Tom threw back his head and broke the silence with an inhuman howl.

* * *

The matron forcibly pushed Tom out of the bedroom as the doctor busied himself around Miranda's body; but he managed to retrieve a memento before he was pulled away from her forever. Professor Dumbledore, the teacher who had taken him from the orphanage four years earlier, had promised to come back for Tom the next morning. This meant that Tom would have to spend the night in the accursed orphanage, all the more hateful to him because of Miranda's death. If he had the choice, he would have left immediately, damn the consequences. . . but something pulled at his broken heart and asked him to stay. For her sake.

That was why Tom was still in the orphanage, slumped in a dark corner near the front door, when the doctor came down the stairs, all business, as if his patient had not just died on his hands.

"A tragic case," he told the weeping matron as he slipped into his frock coat. "Couldn't help her much, I'm afraid. She was too far along in her illness. My condolences to you, madam." And he swept out the door to where his late-night escort was waiting for him. Tom, wanting to get away from his grief, followed him without even the matron noticing.

Tom walked several steps behind the two men, taking care that they did not hear his footsteps. He was close enough to hear their conversation.

"Bad one, eh? Terrible—the missus was saying how pretty the girl was."

"Yes, she was a beautiful girl. It's a shame she had to die so painfully."

"Yeah. Any way you could've saved her?"

"Well, yes, actually." Tom unconsciously hurried his steps, getting closer than he had intended. "There is a drug—only in the experimental stage, mind—that could work to reverse consumption. In her case, she was so advanced before we noticed—"

"It didn't work on her, then?"

"What? No, I'd never try it on her. Do you know how expensive medicine is these days? Especially the new ones?" The doctor laughed as he and his escort turned into an alley. "I never waste any good medicine on ragamuffins. They're crowding up the streets as it is—one death won't hurt anyone. That girl was so poor, it's a wonder she didn't die sooner, anyway. Think of it as one less prostitute getting ready to roam the streets. . ."

Tom's heart was pounding so hard that he did not notice the wand in his hand until it was pointing at the men's backs. Miranda's tortured face filled his eyes, her agonized gasps rang through his head; the hatred pulsing through his veins was unbearable. With a cry, Tom lunged at the doctor and his friend, screaming two words to the heavens, two words for which he would become infamous in the not-so-distant future.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Green light exploded. Then, there was nothing but silence. Both men were spread-eagled on their faces, as still as the girl they had just left behind.

As Tom stood over their dead bodies, he made a silent vow, magical and powerful nonetheless. He would avenge Miranda's death by killing as many Muggles as he could, for they would do nothing to help the poor and innocent of their own kind anyway. Salazar Slytherin was right—Muggles and Mudbloods inferior and filthy to the highest degree. Well, all except one, and now _she_ was gone forever. The rest deserved none of his mercy; they certainly had none for anyone else.

That night, Tom Marvolo Riddle, soon to be Lord Voldemort, discovered that broken love, tainted by death and poisoned by hatred, was indeed the most powerful force in the world.

* * *

Many, many years later, Voldemort stood before the roaring fireplace of the Riddle House. Nagini hissed softly from her place on the hearth, but her owner ignored her. Instead, he was staring at the small lock of chestnut brown hair that rested in the center of his palm. Even though it was over fifty years old, it was still in pristine condition, this little memento from the past.

As he rolled the hair between his fingers, feeling its gentle softness, his words drifted to him from a faraway, better time.

_How could I ever forget you, Miranda? I will always remember you. Always._

_I love you—I'll always love you! I'll never forget you, I swear it!_

_I love you, Miranda. . ._

And then, her voice breathed past him like a gentle spring breeze.

_Forever and ever, until the end._

But they were no more than the haunting fragments of a memory.

FINIS


End file.
